


Back In My Heart Again

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Future Fic, Get Together, Hurt/Comfort, Kent never deals with his feelings, M/M, Pining, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-10 21:42:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10448175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When Kent is stuck in Providence without his team, he doesn't expect Falcs support.  Only he gets it, and it starts to make him wonder what life might be like on the other side.  Especially when he's half drowning in the dark brown eyes of a certain Russian D-Man.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Self-indulgent Patater. I haven't written too much of this ship lately, and frankly the last two days have been...just uhg. So this is a feel-better fic. I guess. Except it got angsty a bit. Whoops. It's half based on back in December when the Stars played the Yotes, and Tyler flew in to AZ ahead of time, only the Stars' plane got grounded, so he was stuck in Phoenix on his own without the team until just before gametime. Let's assume though, it did not end as well for Tyler as it will for Kent.
> 
> This fic is two chapters, and part two should be up by tomorrow night.

Kent stared at the message on his screen in vague disbelief. He’d only done this, only flew out on his own because he figured he was going to arrive _after_ his team got there. He goddamn didn’t expect his little detour to visit his mother would end up with him at the Providence Arena _on his own_ , without his team, in enemy territory. And it was even more hostile since Zimms had joined the team, and Kent wasn’t sure he could even begin to unpack any of that baggage.

Right now he was focused on the whole, The Aces’ plane was grounded in North Carolina and they wouldn’t be arriving until that evening, just before the game. **Just get some ice time and practise with the Falcs.**

As though it was just that easy.

Which. Whatever. It was. And it wasn’t like Kent hadn’t practised on his own before, or been left alone with the team. Hell, he’d been playing with these guys most of his career anyway and he was fairly sure Zimms hadn’t sold him out for being such an asshole a few years back.

The apology probably helped.

And the admission of therapy.

And well…everything else.

I mean Zimms did tweet him three days ago when he posted the picture of Kit getting into his spinach and tuna salad so…

Rubbing a hand down his face, he glanced up sharply as the doors opened, and a couple of the Falcs walked in. Marty, Thirdy, and Tater. Kent tried to look away, to look nonchalant and cool, and like he wasn’t about to beg some of these guys to help him warm up so he could attempt to beat them later.

Fuck.

Why was the Universe like this.

“Your team no showing up,” Mashkov said easily as he glanced at Kent who was leant against the wall.

Kent sighed. “Uh yeah, I guess not. I’m on my own. I’ll just uh…clear out so you guys can…”

“But you leave, you not get any practise,” Mashkov pointed out.

Thirdy raised a brow. “Yeah man. Like, we’re not going to offer you tips, but if you want to shoot some pucks at Snowy…”

Kent glanced at Mashkov almost defiantly. The D-man was protective over his teammates, but more than anyone his goalie and he’d never pissed the guy off more than he did when he’d snowed Neige during his first game against Zimms.

He swallowed thickly when Mashkov’s expression didn’t change. “Uh. I…thanks? I mean…I won’t keep you but um. Yeah, that would be nice. They’re doing their morning skate there since the Canes don’t have a game tonight, and they’ll be in this afternoon before warm-up.”

Kent flinched when Mashkov dropped a massive hand on his shoulder. “Good. Come on, maybe you learn thing or two about clean game.”

Kent rolled his eyes, but decided since this was all kinds of fucked up, he wasn’t going to chirp back.

*** 

It was awkward. It was more awkward than he thought it would be. In his jersey sporting his C, watching Zimms skate with his A, avoiding his direct gaze, but not being able to avoid him on the ice because whatever they’d been all these years, they could still read each other and somehow when Kent got talked into a three-on-three with Zimms and Marty against Mitchy, Thirdy, and Mashkov, it was like it had been.

They were a machine. Jack could still anticipate his movement, and Kent could still shoot the puck without even looking and knowing Zimms was going to get it, and shoot it, and make the shot.

“I’m hope you never be on same team again,” Tater said, slightly out of breath, scowling at their defeat. “Too good. NHL keep you apart for good of other teams.”

Kent couldn’t help sneaking a look at Jack who was pink in the cheeks and looking…softer, he guessed. Less hateful, and maybe like he remembered that for all the bad and fucked up and disaster they’d been, there _had_ been something good there. Once.

They called lunch not long after, and Kent found himself begging one of the interns to grab him a sandwich from somewhere since he hadn’t exactly planned for all that. He found himself easing into a chair at the nearly empty table where Zimms was unwrapping his PB&J with a small, yellow post-it. He didn’t miss the way the note made Jack smile.

“Your boy.”

Jack looked up sharply, his lips thinning.

“I’m not…fuck. Look, I’m happy for you. He seems like a great guy. Great for you.”

Jack swallowed, then nodded. “He is.”

“I could tell, you know. Back then. When I…when we…” He stopped himself. He had apologised and Jack had forgiven him, but the sting still remained of one of his worst moments. “I guess I’m just saying I’m not surprised.”

Jack hesitated, then sighed. “Yeah. I mean I was…and I wasn’t. I think half my team realised it before I did.” He touched the note fondly before tucking it back into his lunch bag. “My dad did.”

Kent snorted. “Yeah well, your dad has a nose like a fucking hound for that unrequited love shit. He knew about uh. Us. Before we said anything.”

Jack’s lips twitched in a smile as he took a bite of his sandwich. “Yeah. He did. He says hi, by the way. He said you don’t tweet him enough.”

“Oh my god,” Kent said quietly. “Tell him to follow Kit’s Instagram and maybe I will.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Sure thing, Kenny.”

Kent froze, but realised hearing his name like that didn’t hurt.

They made small talk for a little bit longer before Jack wandered off, and Kent got a text off the intern saying he was ten minutes out. Feeling still out of place, and desperate for anywhere else to go that wasn’t the goddamn training facility for the goddamn Falconers, he almost got up when a large body walked in.

His eyes focused on Mashkov’s face, then his hands which were carrying a large take-away bag. “Brian say you wanting food.”

“Oh uh,” Kent said. “Uh. Yeah?”

“I have him bring lunch.”

Kent expected Alexei to just hand over the bag. Kent did not expect him to walk past him, head to the table, and begin to lay everything out.

But that’s exactly what Alexei did. They were lobster rolls, wrapped in parchment paper. Kent could smell the sharp tang of lemon, the weighty scent of freshly baked bread. Frankly, it looked amazing. Kent was all nerves, being away from his team and by himself with the Falcs, and his stomach had been in knots. But Alexei’s gaze was as inviting as the lunch.

And then Kent realised he was calling him Alexei in his head.

He cleared his throat, sat, and pushed that thought to the back of his mind. He did not need to think about how well defined Mashkov’s arms were in his Henley. He did _not_ need to think about the abs just under the hem. Or the crooked way Mashkov smiled. Or the way his brown eyes lit up.

Or the way he was strong enough to lift Kent up by the back of his jersey with one goddamn hand.

Fuck.

“Thanks,” he managed as he dragged one of the rolls toward himself. Mashkov gave him a nod, and tucked into his own. They ate in silence for a while, Kent grateful for that small reprieve until Mashkov swallowed, took a long drink from his juice, then turned to Kent.

“How you liking new facility?”

Kent almost choked. “Uh. It’s…nice?”

“Better than yours?”

Kent shrugged. “Uh. I mean, I think ours could use some updating, but it’s also like…Vegas so it all looks like it came out of a seventies porno.” Jesus. He wanted to bite his own fucking tongue off just to stop himself from…

But Mashkov was laughing, his eyes crinkled in the corners, his head shaking back and forth. “Why Zimmboni not tell you’re funny? Aces Captain, maybe comedian when you retiring?”

Kent dragged a hand down his face. “Yeah right. I guess Vegas is the place for that, yeah?”

Mashkov shrugged one shoulder. “I’m not visit there much. Just for game, maybe stay one day. Play machines in lobby but we not having time. Coach not liking guys wander too much.”

Kent let out a small laugh. “Yeah, it’s been a problem before. I don’t you know…gamble, or whatever. Not like…not a lot.” Kent bit his lip, then said, “I can kinda get wrapped up in addictive things, and my therapist has me on a pretty strict routine.”

He hesitated, a wince prepared for whatever look Mashkov wanted to give him that showed disgust or maybe even knowledge that Mashkov already knew how fucked up he was. Instead the guy just shrugged. “Zimmboni girl, she tell him same things. Stay on routine. Is good we play hockey, yes?” He laughed and clapped Kent on the shoulder, leaving Kent wondering where the guy was who wanted to beat his face in and called him an asshole and a little rat.

He wasn’t about to call attention to that memory, though. “Well I’m…I’m glad it’s working. Like shit, I don’t think I’ve seen Jack play better hockey.”

Mashkov snorted. “He’s playing very good. Good to have A, but play too good with you. Maybe he is beat you tonight.”

“We’ll see,” Kent said, and managed a toothy grin. That usually put people off, but Mashkov only grinned back. “I should um…contact management or see if there’s a place I can crash here for my nap. I um…”

“You coming home with me,” Mashkov said, not at all a question, and Kent felt his heart leap into his throat, threatening to choke him. “Too late to find hotel, am living close. Is okay, I’m not sabotage game. We like clean games.”

Kent rolled his eyes, but pushed up. “It’s…I mean if you don’t mind?” he said, feeling like a goddamn idiot who couldn’t hold a conversation like a fully grown adult. His fingers itched to take out his phone and call Carly about this because this was so not in his routine. But part of his therapy lately had been dealing with changes and this was a fairly decent test.

“I’m not mind. Having guest room, nice sofa. Is fine.”

“I should say bye to Jack.”

“He’s talking to his B,” Mashkov said, waving his hand dismissively. “He not mind if you go.”

Kent was startled by the admission. Not that Mashkov had given away pronouns or anything, but the fact that Jack was out to his team…

Kent was out to exactly five Aces, two of which were retiring soon, and frankly his team was deeply rooted in the Don’t Ask Don’t Tell era. Drunken make-outs with Swoops not withstanding.

But it shook something in him. Mashkov knew. He knew and he was clearly fine with it, and there was a damn good chance Falcs management knew too. And maybe some of the other guys. Maybe, because the way Mashkov spoke openly—not enough to give much away, but enough that Bittle was _discussed_. 

It set up a longing in Kent for something like that. Anything. To claw his way out of his goddamn glass closet and leave behind the part of him who was fucked up thanks to what he did, and the secrets he had to keep. The part of him that was still a gaping wound because he’d been a young kid with an undiagnosed mental illness in the world of hockey way too fucking young, and way too fucking alone.

And really only Carly and Jack knew the extent of it. Carly more than Jack with some things, after the silence that stretched on between them for years.

He blinked up and realised Mashkov had cleared up the remnants of their lunch and was waiting for him. “You okay, Parse?”

Kent blinked again. “Oh. Uh. Yeah, just like…late for my nap or whatever. Let’s go.”

He had his overnight bag, and his temporary clearance card for the arena, and he had his nerves set back into place as he followed Mashkov into the parking garage, and to his…

Toyota Prius.

“Fucking really?” Kent asked.

“Is get good gas mileage,” Mashkov said with a way too happy grin. “Am take road trip to Ikea, am not even stopping.” He stroked the dash lovingly before pushing the button to start, and ignoring Kent’s chirping stare.

The drive to Mashkov’s wasn’t long. He wasn’t kidding about living close. Within five minutes they pulled in front of a small cottage close enough to water for Kent to smell the sharp scent of sea air, and feel an almost heavy current of moisture in the breeze.

His hair immediately reacted, which he hated. He jammed his snapback on a little tighter, and hitched his bag up a little higher, and followed Mashkov inside. The place smelt of dog, and there were toys, and a fluffy bed in the corner, but the place was absent of pet paws on the wood floors.

“Where’s your pet?”

Mashkov blinked up from where he was emptying his pockets into a small dish near the door, and shrugged. “Oh, he go to dog sitter. We having roadie tomorrow, gone for six games.”

“Right.” Kent actually knew that, but it was one of those strange things. A lot of players on other teams seem…abstract, in a way. He sees them on the ice, he’s played against them, fought them, chirped them. He’s even interacted with them on Twitter. But it was hard to remember they had lives and homes and girlfriends and wives and even kids.

He had a sudden flash forward of Zimms and Bittle and a little baby with Zimm’s ridiculous eyes and Bittle’s little button nose and freckles, and an ache formed in his gut so intense he almost wanted to throw up. Not because he wished he was Bittle—and hell his therapist would be so fucking proud for how much he means that—but the fact that he hasn’t got it. The fact that Zimms went off and had a normal life and allowed himself anonymity—as much of it as he could grasp before all _this_. And it meant he got the chance most of the gay players in the league never did. Someone who fell in love with Jack instead of Zimmermann. Someone who wouldn’t use outing and status to get his way.

Jealousy burns.

He made a mental note to discuss that the moment he was back in Vegas. This little trip was definitely going to earn Carly her next paycheque.

“So where should I uh…?”

Alexei nodded to the hall. “Second door, should have nice sheets. You needing anything before nap? Water or food?”

“Oh god no, I’m stuffed.”

“I’m wake you up one hour?” Mashkov offered.

Kent bit his lip and then nodded. He could have told him not to bother, that he’d get himself up, but the prospect of having someone there, just a little more human contact, was too good to pass up.

So he headed off, closing the guest bedroom door behind him, and breathed.

It smelt floral, and was decorated a little like a grandmother’s room. It took Kent a moment to realise it was probably the room Mashkov’s mother and father used when they visited. Which made extra sense when he saw a framed photo of the three of them, on the nightstand.

On a whim, and desperate to ignore a strange, clawing emotion he so wasn’t ready to unpack, Kent lifted the photo and took a selfie with it. He threw it into the team chat and typed, **Sleeping with the enemy. This is all your fault, you abandoning fucks.**

He set his phone down and silenced it to ignore the chirps. The bed was comfortable—probably ridiculously expensive, if not simple the way Mashkov seemed to be with everything. But it was nice, and it was soft, and Kent started to feel actually tired.

His playability might be compromised with his head not quite in the game, but at least he was safe, and at least the Falcs hadn’t thrown him out on his ass, or made him feel unwelcome. That alone was…different. And he wasn’t sure how to feel.

For the moment, he was going to sleep. 

For the moment, he was taking it for what it was: an act of kindness and one he definitely planned on giving back.


	2. Chapter 2

Kent rose to consciousness slowly, surrounded by unfamiliar smells, and the ghost of a touch on the side of his cheek. His eyes blinked open in the dim light, and after a moment fixed on Mashkov who was stood at the side of the bed, looking…

Well, Kent couldn’t really read the expression on his face.

“Timezzit?” he muttered, his voice sleep-thick and hoarse.

Mashkov stared another moment before answering. “We have only one hour before we needing to leave. I’m cook little bit dinner. You can shower, then eat.” It wasn’t a request, and Kent felt strangely compelled to follow the instruction.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed as Mashkov walked out, and he touched his cheek where he swore he’d felt a hand before as he was waking up. His other hand drifted out for his phone. He had a dozen chirps, and another dozen worried questions about whether or not the Falcs had been awful.

Then there was Jeff. Two missed calls and a text.

**Dude, like…did he kill you or something? Seriously man we did not mean to leave you hanging. Shit, I’m really worried, can you call me? We’re landing at four.**

Kent checked the clock and hoped Jeff meant four Providence time. He pushed Jeff’s contact, and waited. It rang three times before a breathless voice answered. “Jesus Christ. You’re alive.”

“Mashkov isn’t that much of a dick,” Kent said, scrubbing sleep from his eyes. “He let me crash in what I’m pretty sure is his parents’ bedroom. There’s like photos of him all over and a duvet with actual flowers on it.”

“Oh my god,” Jeff said with a snort. “But you’re fine though. The coach is flipping out that you weren’t here when we landed.”

“He can kiss my entire ass,” Kent muttered. “I got my skate in this morning with the Falcs, then I ate and took my pre-game nap. I’m going to be fine tonight.”

Jeff hesitated, then said, “We really didn’t mean to leave your ass hanging in the wind, Kent. You know that, right?”

Kent smiled a little to himself. “Yeah, dude. I’m not going to blame bullshit plane mechanical crap on you. Seriously, I’m good. Anyway I should shower and attempt to steam the wrinkles out of my suit so I don’t get murdered by coach. See you in a bit.”

They rang off and Kent helped himself to Alexei’s shower which was, like everything else in his house, simplistically delicate. It was a stall big enough for two, marbled tiles on the walls, a rainfall of water up ahead, but nothing fancy. It lacked all of Kent’s usual lush products, and fluffy loofas. There was a single, dry flannel to scrub himself down, and a sort of woodsy soap which Kent realised he could smell all over Mashkov.

It did…strange things to his insides.

He pushed it aside, finished washing, and hurried to dress. His suit wasn’t a total disaster for having been crammed in his bag, though he didn’t want to think what the designer would have said if he knew how poorly Kent treated it. He left his tie undone, and his shirt only half buttoned, and he wandered into the dining room to find Alexei assembling what looked like spaghetti bowls.

“Dude, I was expecting some Russian shit.”

Mashkov turned, raising a brow at him. “You think I’m waste good recipe on Aces Captain?” he chirped.

“Whatever, dude,” Kent said, but he was smiling as he took the bowl.

It was good for what it was—jarred sauce, dry noodles, ground turkey. He really couldn’t have done much better himself, and it settled well in his stomach, as uneasy as that still was.

They sat at the table, eating in silence for a while until Mashkov said, “You team not happy with you here on your own. They thinking we’re bad guys? Or worry about what you do?”

Kent choked a little on his bite. “Uh. Jesus, did they give you shit?”

“Troy send me Twitter message. Just little bit threat.”

Rolling his eyes, Kent sighed and reached for his glass of water. “He’s an over-protective dick. He just uh…” He paused to drink. “He knows that Zimms and I have a complicated past and he worries I guess. But we’re cool.”

“Zimmboni tell me good things,” Mashkov said with a shrug. “Show me old video, of Memorial Cup. Good plays. Am not surprise by your trophies.”

Kent blinked, startled by the compliment—if that’s what it was. “Uh…thanks?” He said, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I guess?”

Mashkov just gave him a warm, careful smile. “Maybe still have good chemistry. Maybe relationship little bit better now that Zimmboni have B.”

Kent chewed on his lip, then said, “Yeah. B’s pretty great, right? Those pies.”

Mashkov groaned. “Will is hating him so much. Nutritionist,” he clarified.

Kent couldn’t help a laugh. “Shit, yeah. He sent cookies last year after we got knocked out of playoffs and holy shit. I still dream about them.”

“Maybe be nice to guys tonight, he bake you more.”

Kent realised the cat was out of the bag. They were talking about Bittle, with his pronouns and everything, and something was swirling in his gut because Mashkov wasn’t bothered like…at all. Like really he just loved Bittle and he knew how Jack felt about him and it was…fine.

God what a luxury. 

His insides burned with jealousy. “I think I’d probably give my right arm for something like that, you know? What Jack has. I mean he wouldn’t have to make pies or anything but it would be nice if the guys on my team were cool.”

Mashkov stared for a long moment, the look on his face making it obvious he understood what a huge moment that was. And maybe he didn’t know Kent had come out to less people than he had fingers, but it was still pretty obvious this was something important. Then he said, “Right arm?”

Kent shrugged. “I shoot with my left. I could make it work.”

Mashkov threw his head back and laughed. It was deep-chested and sweet, his eyes crinkled up at the corners, showing all teeth. He fell into slow giggles, shaking his head. “You funny guy, Parse.”

Kent shrugged. “Can be.”

The laughter died, then Mashkov said, “Thank you for trust me to know. I’m not tell anyone.”

Kent nodded, and the lump in his throat shrank just a bit, and when he felt the press of Mashkov’s foot against his ankle, he pushed back. “Thanks. It’s…not a lot of people know, and the Aces would probably have me publicly flogged. I’ve thought about uh…trades, you know? But like it seems like such a stupid move. And I don’t want to get thrown into free agency because I couldn’t keep my fat mouth shut and watch my career go down the toilet because I like guys.”

Mashkov’s jawline went hard, but he nodded. “Is scary thing, born this way. Something you not change, but knowing will hurt if people know. Can ruin…everything.” He said it heavy and breathy, like it meant something and it dawned on Kent exactly what that was.

“Oh. I uh…”

“I’m not tell team yet. Was…afraid. My parents…are knowing,” Alexei said. “But no one else. Not dating.”

Kent licked his lips. “I got your back, man. No matter what. I swear to god.”

Alexei nodded, and his hands twitched like maybe he meant to reach across the table. But he didn’t. 

They finished their food in silence, then Alexei finished getting ready and they headed out.

*** 

The Aces won in OT. Thirty seconds before they’d be heading into a shootout, and Jeff got the final goal. Everyone was exhausted, but it had been a good game—clean and careful. Kent couldn’t help but remember what it felt like to play on their side though, to have Zimms on his line again, to be clapped on the back and that feeling of safety. And not all the Aces were terrible. They were his family and they had stood by him during wins and losses.

But with the Falcs it felt like more. And maybe it was the pressure of living the way he did, and knowing it would be like that until he retired or he died, and that was just…so much.

He caught Alexei’s eye as they Falcs headed off the ice as the Aces skated to head-boop their goalie, and there was something there behind the shield. Maybe it was longing. And maybe that was Kent projecting because the afternoon had been benign and even a little boring.

But it had also been one of the best Kent had had in a long time.

He could still taste dredges of garlic on the back of his tongue. And he could still feel the echo of Alexei’s foot pressed against his ankle.

Shit.

He found himself dressing and passing off the presser to Swoops, and hurtling down the corridor. He knew the Falcs would be mostly done, and he knew where Alexei had parked his car.

He rushed into the parking garage, and heard the heavy footfalls off to the side. For a moment he thought it was Mashkov, then he heard the soft lilt of Zimms’ accent.

“Yeah…no, it’s fine. Really it was a good game, and we still got the OT point so it’s alright. Yeah.” Jack laughed. He _laughed_ , sounding softer than he ever had. “I love you too, bud. Yeah, I’ll see you soon.”

Kent almost followed him, if only to get a glimpse of happy Zimms. Of content Zimms. Of a Zimms Kent could never have, but really didn’t want. He wanted something like it, not Jack himself.

It was a subtle realisation. One that led him to the stupid hybrid car parked near the cement post. One that had him folding his arms and waiting with impatience and purpose for the tall, Russian man to come round the corner and stop, a look of surprise on his face he couldn’t hide.

“What…your team is…leave without you again?”

Kent shook his head. “No uh.” He trailed off when Alexei approached. “I gotta make the bus. We’re in New York tomorrow. I just um. Before I left I wanted to…” He wasn’t good at this. He’d never been allowed to be, because he always had to hide. His fingers twitched at his sides, then he lifted his hand and brushed a slightly wet curl from Alexei’s forehead. “I was wondering if maybe it would be okay to call you? Uh. Next time I’m in town.”

“When you see Zimmboni?” Tater asked, his voice very, very soft.

Kent shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe um…someone else might want to. You know. Show me the sights.”

Alexei’s mouth stretched into a grin, his cheeks going puffy and pink just under his eyes. “Okay. I’m now a lot of good places.”

“Good,” Kent breathed. “I uh. Good.”

Alexei took a step closer, then reached into Kent’s pocket and pulled out the slim phone. The gesture had Kent speechless, blushing hot as he watched Alexei type in a number, then slip the phone back. “Now you not forget.”

“I wouldn’t,” Kent said, his voice quiet, but firm like a benediction. “I’ll text you.”

Alexei nodded, then looked behind him. When he saw no one, his head came forward and his palm pressed flat against the car near Kent’s hip. “Is okay?” he whispered.

Kent nodded, almost frantic as he curled his hand round the back of Alexei’s neck. “Yes. God. Fuck.”

Then there was mouth against mouth, hot breath, the brush of tongue. It was over too fast, but it held so much promise of future—even if it all rested on a maybe, and on secrets. This secret didn’t feel like forever, and Kent was soaring.

“I’ll text you,” Kent promised.

Alexei brushed his cheek once more, then brushed their mouths together for a last goodbye. “Go. Before you being scratched.”

Kent laughed as he backed up, feeling the loss keenly, but knowing there would probably be more. “See you soon.”

Alexei grinned at him with a small wave. “Yes. Counting on it.”


End file.
